


His Want, His Will

by murdergatsby



Category: American Gods (TV), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Death God Hannibal, Discussion of Death, Just Less Dead Than Before, Kinda, M/M, Not That Kind of Vibes, References to Depression, Soulmate Vibes, Temporary Character Death, Zombie Will - Freeform, he's still dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdergatsby/pseuds/murdergatsby
Summary: Will dies. Will is resurrected. Hannibal can't place why.





	His Want, His Will

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my entry for The Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive's [#FullerFeast](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/post/162407410024/hannibalcreative-fannibals-love-hannibal-that), which is an event dedicated Hannibal crossovers/AUs/etc. with all of Bryan Fuller's work!
> 
> Please let me say, idk if this story is going anywhere else. It is absolutely a one-shot. When I watched this scene in the American Gods episode "Git Gone", and my hannigram-conditioned mind kicked in, it made me go _here._
> 
> You can read this without having watched the show or read the book. I just borrowed the scene, the feeling of the universe, and reapplied a couple lines here and ther. It shouldn't spoil anything in American Gods, either. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> **UPDATE AUGUST 31 2017:** The lovely [Rivaqah](https://twitter.com/Rivaqah) did ART INSPIRED BY THIS PIECE, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?? Check it out [here.](https://twitter.com/Rivaqah/status/903357334658965504)

The man led Will down to the table with a graceful hand. He offered it as if he were helping him up into a car, or more thematically, a horse. He smiled at him and Will felt the emotional warmth from the gesture, but couldn’t bring himself to respond with the same kind of warmth. He took the man’s hand and let him guide his bare legs to the steel without so much as a cheerful _twitch_ of expression.

The man’s name was Hannibal, as he had introduced the night they first met- or day. Will wasn’t so sure. The place they had met didn’t seem to obey the constructs of the sun. It was beautiful, though, wherever it was.

Colored with teal and violet tones of earth you just can’t find in the natural world, after Will died he found himself in a dense forest. Fog creeped along the ground hiding their roots, his feet, and any sense that he was still walking on something truly solid. He could hear rain but felt none on his skin, and looking up for clouds only brought further wonder to him; the trees reached onward, for what could have been forever, and hid their uppermost branches under another layer of fog- this one, baby blue.

He was drawn forward through the path the trees made for him until he happened upon a man- this man- seated in a chair across from an empty one, in a field of tall grass. He was waiting for him and he was cheerful about his arrival.

Will waded through the grass and sat in the empty chair. The man looked him up and down and Will asked, _“Who are you?”_

The man said, _“My name is Hannibal.”_ then frowned with a gentle confusion Will never learned the source of.

Will woke up in what he knew to be a coffin, with no more of a transition than a blink of his eyes. He wondered if he had even died at all, and if he been buried alive… But knew things like that didn’t happen anymore. Will was certain he had died.

Breaking through the wood of his coffin was easier than it should have been. Digging back to the surface should have been something impossible to do on a single breath, but he managed- later realizing, of course, that he didn’t need the breath he was worried about missing out on. He pulled himself from the dirt, assessed his location, and dragged himself home.

It wasn’t long before Hannibal found him, and took him _here_.

The walls of the entry room were covered in blue and gold wallpaper, and bird-cage shaped terrariums full of condensation and snails. The room he was in now was white, silver, and medical. The table he was laying naked on was for autopsies and embalming. He wondered if Hannibal intended to put him back in the ground.

“I’m certain you’ve noticed you’re rotting.” The man said.

Will’s eyes shifted from their point of focus on the ceiling, to the eyeline of the man. He stood just beside him, setting something up from the inside of a metal case.

“I can’t stop the process, but I can make you more visibly presentable.” He explained. Again, he smiled and Will couldn’t find the energy to return the favor.

Hannibal revealed what he was building to be an airbrush. He tested the color on his own arm and, satisfied, began to apply the paint to Will’s feet. Watching the color grow up his legs, Will felt himself itching with pure emotion for the first time in ages.

He knew he had become sickly looking, but watching a color that was pale against the inner-arm of his artist bring his skin back to life moved him. He hadn’t realized just _how dead_ he looked.

“This paint is waterproof and won’t crack in the sun.” Hannibal said, as he moved the stream of paint to Will’s thighs. Will averted his eyes, suddenly bashful of his form.

“How often will I have to do this?” Will asked. The sound of his own voice startled him, defensive nerves tensing under his skin. He wondered if that kind of physical reaction, and any he may experience from this point on, were real or if they were all in his head.

“Your skin cells no longer replace themselves, so you shouldn’t need any touch ups along the way.” Hannibal replied. He looked to where Will’s head was, hoping to look him in the eye. Instead, he met with the underside of his chin. “Some of the others like to carry around foundation in a compact, for emergencies.” He added, hoping that the mention of _others_ would help Will understand that he was a professional, and that this process was something professional.

Satisfied, Will let himself go quiet. Hannibal finished up with the top-side of Will’s legs, and moved on to his abdomen. Before covering his chest with paint, he carefully pressed his fingertips against the Y-shaped incision marks from Will’s post- mortem. Usually they didn’t take much care when closing bodies, for reasons that were obvious, but who ever had done Will’s autopsy had been careful.

Aside from these scars, Will’s body had three bullet wounds: One in his shoulder, two in his stomach. Will’s death was likely slow and painful, but had felt like a blur to him. _That is the blessing of pain._ Hannibal thought.

The spray of Hannibal’s brush reached Will’s neck, and he saw Will try and tilt his head even farther back as an escape. Hannibal pulled away and leaned over Will’s form, to look him in the eye.

“Close your eyes.” He instructed.

With a shrug of his shoulders that could have been confused for a sigh, Will obeyed. Hannibal finished his work carefully, making sure to not let the paint cake up on his skin. When he felt content with his work, he placed the airbrush aside and stepped away from the table.

“When you finish drying,” He explained. “I’ll have you flip on your stomach. When we’re done there, you will be free to go.”

Hannibal waited, looking at Will while he calmly blinked open his eyes. He was a handsome man. Beautiful, almost, even with his grouchy and cold personality. Hannibal didn’t get many angry people on his table. Quiet, yes, but never quite equipped with this much bite.

Will opened his mouth to speak, and Hannibal expected some kind of snarky confirmation that he had understood him. Instead, he stammered, “Why am I back?”

Calmly, Hannibal grabbed a nearby stool and placed it beside where Will was laying. Will felt as if he may be read to from a storybook by the way Hannibal was posturing, the way he took a seat beside him and loomed.

“Sometimes, in very special cases,” Hannibal began. “Souls are sent back to their bodies for a second chance at their material lives. I’m sure you’ve heard of unfinished business.”

Will shook his head as a reaction to confusion, rather than disagreement. Hannibal lifted his hand to stop him.

“Try not to move.” Hannibal instructed. Will’s eyes darted in his direction, and Hannibal tried to soften the mood of the room with a light laugh. “You’re still tacky.” He added.

Will’s gaze dropped, then raised back to the ceiling. “I just don’t know what it is I could have wanted to finish that badly.” He expanded.

Hannibal fought the urge to tilt his head and reveal the extent of his curiosity. _Everyone has something_ , even the people that don’t get their second chance. He leaned forward and placed an arm on the table, again careful not to touch his work.

“Your will to complete your life the way _you intended_ must have been strong enough to pull you back.” He said. “Even if you’re not sure what it is you’re here to do, there is _something_ for you to do.”

Will looked as if he may start to cry, and Hannibal’s curiosity further gnawed at him. Individuals were hardly ever _sad_ in this position, either. The tears he’d seen, and painted over, were always those of relief and joy.

“Do you not wish to have a second chance?” Hannibal asked, stemming from his observation.

Will chewed over his response for a long time. It’s not that he wanted to die, it was just that this didn’t feel _right_. Everything was so numb. He felt as if he were floating. If his body were to continue to decay around him, and his mind were to continue cursing him with this empty ache… he didn’t understand the point of it all.

“Could this have been a mistake?” Will asked, finally speaking and skillfully avoiding Hannibal’s question- one that he didn’t know how to answer. “Could this _second chance_ be intended for someone else?”

Hannibal shook his head. “No.”

Will shrugged his mouth in a kind of pout. “Death doesn’t make clerical errors?”

Hannibal laughed, this time with honest gusto. “No.” He confirmed. “Death does not.”

Will, for the first time since his death, cracked his face into a smile. Hannibal couldn’t place why, but something about that- and how he was partly to blame for it- made him feel content and warm.

Hannibal followed the lines of Will’s profile, down the crooked of his nose to the bow of his lips. The paint he had used on his face had washed out their shape, making them blend with the surrounding color of Will’s face.

He couldn’t let him leave like that.

Hannibal dug back into his metal case. He returned with a hand-mixed bottle of rose-pink paint, and one of the tiniest paint brushes Will had ever seen. He applied to a palette, to the brush, and then moved in slowly to paint the details of Will’s lips.

Will became tense again, having Hannibal this close to his face. Hannibal’s eyes never left his lips, but Will’s eyes were everywhere. He didn’t know where to look, he didn’t know how much he was allowed to move. The pressure was overwhelming.

“Were you in love, by chance?” Hannibal asked. He could feel the room growing tight again, with Will’s stress, and- when he normally wouldn’t care- he wanted to bring this prickly man more ease. _Death is hard on everyone_ , he reminded himself. He brought the brush off Will’s lips to watch him speak, and admire how his handiwork moved.

“No.” Will answered as quickly as the brush left his lips. It felt natural, so Hannibal trusted it to be an honest answer. People who were in love, and not yet ready to admit it, drag the rejection of the accusation on.

_No, never. Definitely not._  

It was rarely a calm and simple “No,” as Will had just delivered.

Hannibal hummed while he considered this. “Love is the most common reason for resurrection.” He informed. “Hate, being the second.”

Will shook his head once he realized Hannibal was suggesting that revenge could be his unfinished business. That suggestion didn’t strike a familiar chord with him, either.

Hannibal noticed a tiny drip in Will’s freshly drawn lips, and took the clean tip of his thumb to correct it. “Your reason must be something very unique.” He settled on. He knew, because everyone always did, that Will would find his reason for returning.

As the skin of Hannibal’s finger touched the cold of Will’s face, Will felt a strong knock take place in his chest. It would have hurt, if it wasn’t so sudden and over so fast. It felt like he had to cough but couldn’t. Hannibal felt it too, and recognized it as a single beat of his heart. They both froze for a moment.

With a groan of discomfort Will asked. “Was that supposed to happen?”

Hannibal sighed as if he had just looked into something beyond what beauty could describe. “No.” He answered. “As I said, your reason must be something very unique.”

Hannibal wandered around the paths of his mind for a moment, trying to construct a _why_. When he felt he had centered himself, and when the front of Will’s body had dried, he asked him to flip over for him. Their conversation became very limited from that point on.

Hannibal finished painting him as promised, brought him some clothes, and gave him space. He waited by the door, as he usually did, to wish his _patient_ good luck. He liked to plant the idea that he wouldn’t be watching them, and that they would be on their own to be independent and make their own mistakes. With this patient, though, he felt increasingly anxious about the idea of only being able to observe. _Interesting_ , he thought.

Even as ethereal a being as he was, _Will_ felt like something magical to him. Something _unique_ by every sense of the word. His mind crept back to the heartbeat, and stalled there. That was something he had never experienced.

_“Love is the most common reason for resurrection.”_ He heard himself echo in his head. For just a moment, Hannibal wondered if he may be the reason for Will’s return.

“When I figure out what ever it is I’m here to _complete_...” came Will’s voice from the opposite side of the entry way, interrupting Hannibal’s train of thought.

Hannibal raised his head to see Will walking towards him, unfinished. Even with his collared shirt half-buttoned and haphazardly tucked into the waist of dark slacks, he looked incredible. He looked much better than how he looked when he had arrived- in an old fisherman’s jacket worn over the tattered dress clothes he had been buried in, covered in dirt.

“When it’s _completed_ , will you come to collect me?” Will continued, when he was close enough to look Hannibal in the eye. He stopped, stood in front of him, and tampered with the way his shirt laid against his body while waiting for answer.

Hannibal felt taken off-guard. The question was soft and almost _hopeful_. He wondered if he had succeeded in bringing Will enough ease that he now considered him a _friend_. Hannibal, as far as Will was concerned, was someone he could trust so that inclination was easy for Hannibal to swallow. Still, in touched him oddly.

Sensing Hannibal’s slight confusion, Will continued on with a sarcastic tone. “Deliver me into endless darkness?” He added. “Everlasting peace? Whatever it is.”

Hannibal smirked and avoided Will’s eyes. He offered him a hand to shake, and Will took it. For the first time in a long time, he had no idea where this was going.

“We’ll see.”


End file.
